


critical but stable

by heartsfilthylesson



Category: The Fall (TV)
Genre: F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-21
Updated: 2014-12-21
Packaged: 2018-03-02 17:30:11
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 987
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2820374
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/heartsfilthylesson/pseuds/heartsfilthylesson
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>As the case comes to a close, Reed wonders if her place in Stella's life has as well.</p>
            </blockquote>





	critical but stable

**Author's Note:**

> Spoilers for the finale. Also I'm never giving up.

“You fucked Anderson.” It’s neither the time nor place but the words tumble from her lips before she can stop herself. Reed doesn’t mean to sound angry, merely wants to make an observation, to state a fact, but can’t keep the bitterness from her voice. They are nothing, she turned her away, they are _nothing_ but she is jealous nonetheless.

(She almost apologises but it gets caught in her throat. She supposes it’s because she’s not sorry, not really.) 

Stella looks ahead, spine straight, shoulders stiff. She’s wearing much-too-large green scrubs, blonde hair pulled back. “He was there,” she says softly but what Reed hears –what she truly means—is _you weren’t, you left._

When she finally turns to face her, Reed sees Paul Spector’s blood on her chest. 

Much later, after Reed’s gone home and read her girls a story –buccaneers and treasures and deserted islands— and put them to bed, after she checks on Rose, and returns to the hospital, she finds Stella in the same spot. She’s out of the borrowed garments and into her own immaculate clothes, hair down and curling on the ends. She looks better now, almost like herself, but her posture remains the same. 

Wordlessly, she accepts the coffee –real coffee, not hospital sludge— Reed offers, takes a small sip and sets the Styrofoam cup on the tiled floor. 

“How’s Spector doing?” Reed asks once she’s sa t, her own drink cradled between her hands. What she wants to ask is _how are you doing?_ but doesn’t dare. Innocuous as the question might seem, after earlier, it feels like violating her privacy again, like crossing another line. 

Stella sighs. “Critical but stable.” 

Reed chews on her bottom lip and glances sideways at the woman. “And DC Anderson?” The silence grows between them, grave and unnerving, before Stella shrugs. “I’ve not asked.” 

It’s such a callous thing to say, Reed thinks and Stella must agree because she leans forward, face in her hands, elbows resting on her knees. 

\---

“You look well.” She sets the flowers she’s brought –daffodils and tulips and daisies— on a small table near the window. Rose has been recovering with surprising speed and Reed is selfishly thankful. She’s not thinking only of her friend and her small children and her husband but of the agonising guilt she felt while she was missing. Even now that the danger’s passed, she wonders what would have happened if what they’d found in the boot had been a corpse. 

“Oh, please.” Rose smiles and it lights up her face. She looks so beautiful and so alive Reed feels like crying but instead reaches for her hand and gives it a squeeze. “I look like shite.” 

After they get the _how are yous?_ and _I’m fines_ out of the way, they’re setting up playdates and scheduling dinners. It’s almost like Rose hadn’t been gone for days, like she didn’t escape a horrible fate. 

Rose’s mobile rings as Reed offers to keep Nancy and her boy for a few days. “It’s Stella Gibson,” she says and slides a finger down the screen. 

There’s no reason for her heart to speed up –and she’s not quite sure whether it’s from apprehension or excitement—but it does anyway and she looks everywhere but at Rose as she speaks, tries not to pay too much attention to the conversation. Once she’s hung up, her friend announces the detective will be there soon and Reed nearly jumps out her seat. 

She kisses Rose’s cheek and promises to ring later. 

\---

Gossip doesn’t often reach her ears but lately she’s been catching bits and pieces of things she doesn’t really wish to hear. Around the PSNI, around the mortuary even, people have been eagerly discussing whatever it was that happened out in the woods. She overhears some young constable say the cool DSI Gibson lost it and her heart shrivels.

In her office, she spends the time alternating between filling out reports, Y-incisions and furiously typing messages that she doesn’t send. _I want to see you. Are you free? May we meet?_ At the end of the workday, just before nine, she decides to phone her. It rings once before she loses her nerve and, with a huff, she stuffs the mobile in her back pocket. 

There’s very little traffic and she arrives to an empty house much too soon. She checks her phone and there are no missed calls, no messages. Five minutes later, she checks it again. Nothing. Before she really knows what she’s doing, she’s back on her motorbike. 

Stella’s office is so dark and so still Reed fears she might have missed her. It takes three very loud knocks to get an answer, a sleep-laden _come in_. 

She hovers near the door for a minute or two before turning on the lights and sitting next to her on the cot. “Have dinner with me?” Reed asks softly. 

Stella smiles but it doesn’t quite reach her eyes. “Perhaps another time.” 

\---

Much like Rose, Paul Spector makes an astounding recovery and the trial is promptly rescheduled. She gets a message from Stella informing her as much and requesting some reports. It’s the first she hears from her since that night in her office and it feels like an uppercut to the nose. 

\--

Reed, dark hair in a lopsided ponytail and barefoot, answers the door after the second ring. Stella Gibson is the last person she expects but she is there, a tight smile on her face. 

“I pulled your address off the database,” Stella says, hands stuffed in her pockets. “I hope you don’t mind.” 

Reed shrugs and wishes she did mind, wishes she didn’t want to invite the woman into her home, into her life. She steps aside and lets her through. “I’ll put the kettle on.” 

“No need.” Stella reaches into her oversized purse and retrieves a bottle of single malt. “I've brought us drinks."


End file.
